Black Leopard in an Urban Jungle
by Motsie of Atlantis
Summary: How Michelle Goodman, CIA operative Quinn and the future Mrs. Sam Hanna, first became involved with Isaak Sidorov, infiltrating his organization, and maybe his heart?


Aleksandre Guramishvili, fighting with the Abkhaz Separatists, was in Germany to seek arms and financing for their uprising in the area of the former Russian State of Georgia. Sidorov had a deal with the Russians to provide arms to other side, and ordered Quinn to kill Aleksandre and his wife to prove her skills as an assassin. She turned it into a CIA op to let him live, but remove him from field so she can get closer to Sidorov. One of the agents involved recognized Quinn as a girl he used to tease and bully as a teen. Can the two of them overcome their personal feelings from so long ago to complete the mission?

**A/N:** Gina Callen alerted us to the challenge which was first issued by the Facebook group fanfic writers unite to write a FF about bullying and mark it #ForAdam. Here is a one shot about how Michelle Goodman was bullied as a child, and how she overcame it. Not all stories have this good an outcome, and unfortunately most of the stories we hear about in the news are not fiction. Maybe some day, when people care enough, they will be.

**A/N 2:** #ForAdam, Rest in Peace

**A/N 3:** I want to thank G for again making sure that the Russian I used in this story did not sound as if it were coming from a babbling two year old child, and making sure that the C130 did not crash upon landing because it was at the wrong airport.

**Disclaimer:** Thanks to Donald P. Bellisario, and Shane Brennan, for teaching me to play with the fantastic characters and sets that they have created. Since I don't own them, they made me promise that I return them by their curfew. Although they might be slightly (?) battered and bruised, I did send them home. All the other original characters that you do not recognize, are slaving away for me, trying to come up with an original idea for the next story that I might write.

**Black Leopard in an Urban Jungle**

**Moscow, Russia - 1993**

Isaak Sidorov was relaxing in the large, sunken hot tub, sitting up to his neck in the public spa just off of the downtown area of Moscow, near the FAPSI headquarters, the Federal Agency of Government Communications and Information that merged the Government Communications units with the Electronic Intelligence units of the KGB. Although he officially was a legitimate, independent import / export broker, everyone in the higher ranks of governments around the world knew that he was mainly an arms dealer and involved in information and human trafficking. Dmitri Greshnev, his main lieutenant came in and kneeled at the edge of the pool to deliver the answer that he had been ordered to find.

"Dobroye utro, ser" [Good morning, sir.] Everything we heard is true, sir, there is a new assassin for hire out there. She is said to already have 38 kills. She does her own work and guarantees satisfaction with that work."

"You are absolutely sure about her? Not many good assassins have been women. This Black Widow must be something special. I wonder if we should give her a test, and if she should pass it, make her a member of our family?"

"We can set up a test for her, but as far as getting her to become a member of our family, I'm afraid that just won't happen. She is fiercely independent, plans her own missions, hires all the people she needs, if any, from her own sources, completes the missions, and then moves on to another city, country, target. She accepts the ones that she feels are challenging enough and worthy of her skills, and declines anything she doesn't want to do."

"Do we know anything about her, friends, family, associates that we can use to help us leverage her into making the proper decision?'

"Very little about her is known. My sources have found out that she was originally from Angola and grew up during the civil war there. Where she learned her craft is unknown. She has no known family or friends, and her associates are those people she needs to complete the mission she is currently on."

"A lady of mystery. This entirely intrigues me. We definitely need to set up a mission for her just to find out how good she really is for ourselves. I wonder, who is it that we need removed from this life." he said with a sneer.

**)( )( )( )( )( )(**

**Somewhere in the hills on the Gumista front, near Sukhumi, in the former Soviet Union state of Georgia.**

Colonel Mikheil Javakhi, one of military leaders under General David Tevzadze, called Lieutenant Aleksandre Guramishvili, one of his commanders to his headquarters.

"Lieutenant Guramishvili, you know how the war is going for us."

"Yes, sir. We need so much if we are to prevail. Do you see any possibilities for us to get what we need?"

"That is going to be your mission. Word has reached me that there is a possibility of getting arms and financing from some possible new friends in Germany."

"I wish you good luck in your mission there, sir."

"Not me, Aleksandre, but you will go and try to procure it for us."

"Me, sir?" I am not a diplomat that I can successfully argue our cause. It would be much better if you, or one of the other senior officers were to go."

"No Aleksandre, you would not be suspected, especially if you took your wife along with you, as if you two were going on a vacation."

"But, sir, my wife Ketevan is three months pregnant. I don't know if I want her to travel on a dangerous mission like this."

"If this mission does not succeed, do you want her to remain here, when we will have to suffer the brunt of the enemy attacks with what little supplies and material that we now have?"

"No, I guess not."

"This must be kept a secret, Aleksandre, not even you wife is to know the true mission on which I am sending you."

"Very well, sir." how soon should I get ready to leave?"

"It will take a couple of days to get all the documents and messages prepared. You should probably pack today or tomorrow and be ready to leave at any time."

"Yes, sir. I will try to get everything we need."

Unfortunately, neither of these officers noticed the enlisted man that was listening in on this meeting. He left unseen, and prepared a message to send to the Russian troops on the other side of Sukhumi.

**)( )( )( )( )( )(**

**Moscow, Russia**

Two days later, a man in a cheap suit appeared at the office complex that Isaak Sidorov used for his business transactions. At the desk he asked for Dmitri Greshnev. When told that Greshnev had not yet arrived, he sat down to wait. Half an hour later, as the man for whom he was waiting entered the building, the messenger rose, handed him a sealed envelope with his name on it, and walked out. Greshnev went to his office, read the enclosed note, and picked up the phone to call Sidorov.

"We just might have the set up for a test of our new assassin."

"Who would the target be?"

"A Lieutenant Aleksandre Guramishvili and his wife Ketevan, traveling to Germany as tourists, but whose actual mission is to get arms and financing for the Separatists forces in the War in Abkhazia. Since we are supplying arms to the other side, it would be better if he did not complete his mission."

"Very well, contact Quinn and see if she will take on this project. If not, we will have to make other arrangements."

"Very well, sir."

**)( )( )( )( )( )(**

**Frankfurt, Germany**

In a nondescript lawyer's office on the fourth floor of a relatively new office building, CIA substation chief Isaac Phelps looked at the three agents seated before him, Bruce Hughes, senior agent, Erick Ross, called in quickly from the Berlin office, and Rick Baldwin, the youngest of the three men, newly appointed to the German area. He knew that the two older men were competent, but wondered about Baldwin, if he would be able to help them complete this mission.

"I've called you here today because we might have a mission. Isaac Sidorov has made contact with one of our clandestine agents, and we may have to help establish her story to get her into his organization."

"Sidorov? God, we've been after him for years. But I thought that he fell under the Russian section of the CIA. Why are we involved?" Ross asked.

"Because we may have a unique way of embedding someone into his organization. If we can do it, we can save lives with the intel that she can get out to us." Phelps answered.

"She?" Hughes asked. "You aren't going to send a woman in to work with that maniac, are you?"

"From what I've heard, she is extremely good," Phelps said, "and we will do everything we can to back up her story."

Hughes shook his head, but knew that nothing would change. "Okay, who is she and what will we have to do to help her?"

Phelps opened up a file, and showed them the pictures it contained. "This is Quinn. She is a purported assassin for hire and Sidorov has proposed a target for her. Her target is Lieutenant Aleksandre Guramishvili and his wife Ketevan, who will be in Germany to try to get arms for the Separatists forces in the War in Abkhazia. Sidorov is providing arms to the other side, and is trying to get Quinn to accept the contract of assassinating the couple."

"Has she taken on the contract yet?" Ross asked.

"No, we have been in contact with our friends in the Bundesnachrichtendienst [the German foreign intelligence agency], and they have assured us that they contacted the German arms dealers to slow down the negotiations with Guramishvili, so we can get our plan in place." Phelps replied.

Rick Baldwin continued to stare at the picture with a very puzzled look on his face.

"Is there a problem, Agent Baldwin?" Phelps asked.

"This woman, Quinn. Her face looks familiar. You don't know her actual name, do you?" Baldwin asked.

"No. It isn't in the file." Phelps said.

"My mind just sees a younger version of her face...a child per-...I know who it was, little tag-a-long-Michelle," Baldwin said as recognition came to his eyes. "Last time I saw her was about ten years ago, when we were kids in Boy Scouts back in the States."

"Ahh..." Phelps said, "I did tell you that she is a female agent, didn't I? How the heck could she have been in Boy Scouts."

"That's what we kept telling her. Her dad, Russell Goodman, was our assistant Scout Master, and he was very good. The only problem was that his daughter had to be included in all of our activities. It wasn't so bad when we were off as a troop, doing things by ourselves. What got embarrassing for us was when we had joint activities with other troops. We couldn't have this little girl showing us up in just about everything. So we let her come along, but made it clear to her that a girl's place was in the camp. She was there to help cook and clean up, but nothing more. We teased her, calling her Michelle the maid, and Michelle Goodgirl. Even when we had cooking contests and her entry won the event, we celebrated it as a troop victory, and didn't mention her. We really shunned her. She had to sleep alone, eat alone after the rest of us were done, stay in camp by herself. Lots of cracks were made to her face and behind her back, usually ending with, 'What do you know, you're just a stupid girl.' But stupid was not what she was. She could have earned a whole lot more badges than any of us guys, but she was a girl, and so she didn't get the recognition she deserved."

"So what are you saying, in your opinion, is she someone who can carry this operation off, or is she just playing spies like she was Boy Scouts?" Phelps asked.

"Sir, I don't know how bad this Sidorov can be, but the Michelle Goodman I knew ten years ago was able to stand up to the constant cruel bullying of thirty teenage boys, and show them up for what they really were, without them even knowing it, with her brains and her abilities."

"Then you're on board with the operation?" Phelps looked at him intently, wondering if this would be a problem for Quinn, if she indeed were this Michelle Goodman.

"Yes, sir. From what I remember she is a tough little gal with a good head on her shoulders."

"Fine." Phelps said as he picked up the photo and papers and put them back into the file folder. "I'll tell her that it's a go."

**)( )( )( )( )( )(**

**Frankfurt, Germany**

Dmitri Greshnev waited until Isaak Sidorov picked up the phone. Since it was so late in Moscow, he spent no time on small talk. "It is arranged. The contract has been accepted.

"The job will take place to your satisfaction?" Sidorov asked.

"I have asked to watch the job being performed. I was assured that I would be pleased with the results."

"What is her asking price?"

"Fifty thousand German marks each."

"It's a little steep, but still acceptable. Payment will be made at this location."

"I don't know if that will be acceptable, but I will present it."

"There is no debate on that. If the job is successful, I want to make the payment myself, and try to recruit another skilled talent into my organization. If not, you can make the payment on the spot, and we will not have to deal with that one any longer."

"I understand, sir. I will call when we have an outcome. Goodnight, sir."

Greshnev waited until he herd the click of his boss's phone cutting the connection. He hung up his phone and walked back to his hotel, planning on calling Quinn early the next morning.

**)( )( )( )( )( )(**

Shortly after Quinn got her phone call from Greshnev, Guramishvili also got a phone call, inviting him to a meeting later that morning at Frankfurt offices of Daimler AG, one of Germany's major defense contractors. He eagerly accepted, hoping that he could convince them to provide him with the anti tank and anti aircraft missiles he was seeking.

"I am Aleksandre Guramishvili. I have an appointment with Herr Buehler for 10:00 AM." he told the receptionist at the main desk of the Daimler AG office.

"Yes, Herr Guramishvili. I will have him informed that you are here. If you want you can sit over there and wait for him."

"Danke [Thank you]."

Eric Ross, under his CIA alias of Gerhard Buehler, met him a few moments later, and ushered him to an empty office.

"Good morning, sir. Please help yourself to coffee or water if you want and then please sit down. I have a rather interesting proposal for you." the CIA agent declared.

Aleksandre grabbed a bottle of water and sat down, wondering what he meant by his words.

"You are trying to get some anti tank and anti aircraft missiles for your troops, correct?" Ross asked.

"Yes, we need them in order to counter the Russian arms that are being used against us." the young man answered.

"And you really don't have the funds available to buy them on the open market, true?" Ross continued.

"Not really. We are just struggling to survive. We do not have the unlimited funding of many of the major countries, such as yours." was the answer given.

"Then this is the proposal I have to lay before you. We will provide five hundred Panzerfaust 3 [Tank fist 3], a disposable recoilless anti-tank weapon that fires rocket propelled grenades, and two hundred fifty FIM-92 Stinger surface-to-air missiles for your people to use against the Russian supplied troops and material that you face."

Aleksandre almost fell out of his chair and could not believe what he just heard. "You know, of course, that we don't have the funds to even begin to start paying for that amount of weapons?"

Ross looked him square in the eyes across the table. "I don't expect you to come up with any money to pay for these items."

The young man became extremely anxious as he looked at the stern look on the agent's face. "If you don't expect any money in payment for these weapons, what is it going to cost me?"

Ross knew that this was going to be the deciding moment of their conversation, as he said to him, "The lives of you and your wife."

Aleksandre jumped up, knocking his chair over as he exclaimed, "What?! You intend to kill me and my wife?"

"In a manner of speaking. Aleksandre Guramishvili and his wife Ketevan, would be killed off in a public assassination. You and your wife would be taken out of the country here and be given new identities in a different country. You would be provided with a job and a place to live, everything you need to live a normal life. You just would not be able to go home again."

"And if I decide not to take you up on this offer?" Aleksandre asked.

"The outcome will basically be the same. You and your wife would cease to exist, but there would be no new identities, no new lives, and no weapons for your people."

"So, I really have no choice?"

"I'm sorry, but that's the way it has to be."

"May I talk it over with my wife?"

"No. You have to make the decision for the two of you, right here, right now."

"Well then, like I said, I really have no choice but to give in."

"And, Aleksandre, don't think that you will be able to accept our offer and then change the terms to allow you to return some year. We will be watching you, and should that happen, you will be killed."

A cold shiver went down Aleksandre's back as he thought of those consequences.

**)( )( )( )( )( )(**

An hour later, Ross entered an unmarked office on the other side of town. Bruce Hughes and Rick Baldwin, were already waiting for him, but the guest of honor had not yet arrived. Five minutes later, there was a knock on the door, and she gave the room a quick scan before she entered. Hughes got up and offered her his hand, but she just walked over and took a seat at the far end of the table. Just by her demeanor, she showed these three agents that she was in charge.

"Quinn, I take it?" Hughes asked.

She just nodded her head, wondering just how inept these agents were going to be.

"I'm Bruce Hughes, senior agent. That's Erick Ross, from the Berlin office, and Rick Baldwin."

When she heard the name Rick Baldwin, her eyes darted to take in the face of the young man. It couldn't be, could it? Was this the same man who was part of the tormenting Boy Scout troop that she had to put up with some ten years ago? He looked like he was the right age, and the face, if older, still looked somewhat familiar. As she looked again she saw that he was studying her just as much as she was him. It was him. And he knew who she was, too.

Quinn briefly described the mission, "We are going to have to fake the deaths of Aleksandre and Ketevan Guramishvili and then get them out of the country. This will have to be done in plain sight, with Dmitri Greshnev witnessing their deaths for Isaak Sidorov."

"Do you have any idea of how you are going to do this?" Hughes asked her.

"We are going to make a switch and one of you are going to be driving the car. You will park it and sneak out of the car while pulling up a dummy driver. Unobserved by us, you will enter a van that is parked in the next space. One of the other two of you will be dressed as a delivery man and get into the van and drive it away. After a few moments I will blow up the car with a RPG. The last of you could imitate a policemen who investigates the incident, or puts an anti separatist message on the wall of their hotel room. A notice of the incident will be placed in the papers to corroborate the deaths. In the mean time, Aleksandre and Ketevan will be relocated and given a new life."

"Are you sure that something like this will work?" Baldwin asked, his doubts written all over his face.

"Michelle looked at him and started to wonder if he knew how good she really was, or if he was still seeing her as that fearful, bullied, little teenage girl he remembered from Scouts. For a brief moment she was transported ten years back in time, as she relived those painful days. She remembered all the teasing names they called her, "the stick" because she was a late bloomer, "Chelle dumbbell", although she was the one who tutored almost everyone in the troop to get their badges, "baby", even though she never complained about how they mistreated her. They always looked at her as the camp maid, good enough to cook and clean for them, but not much else.

All of her accomplishments were never acknowledged. The rest of them couldn't get more than fifteen objects in "Kim's game", while she could get twenty-five. She could beat everyone in orienteering and tracking. Her scores in archery and target shooting were always the top ones. She would have had her Eagle Scout Award six months before anyone else in the troop. But she was a girl, and couldn't qualify for anything that the rest of them could, because of her sex. She was left out of everything important, and treated as if she just didn't exist.

What Rick Baldwin would never know is how much that hurt her back then. As much as she loved being out with her father on these activities, and as much she learned from them, she hated how badly she was treated. But instead of letting it fester inside her, instead of letting it pull her apart and destroying her, she had taken all that she learned while being bullied, and used it to built up her walls so it didn't hurt any more. She knew how much those words and actions had hurt her, and she now incorporated a version of it in to manipulate others, as she dealt with them in her job. This made her a very effective and deadly agent.

Quinn quickly reverted back to agent mode, turned her eyes to Baldwin, and stared at him, while she said, "The only way it isn't going to work is if one of you screws it up."

**)( )( )( )( )( )(**

The following day, Quinn and Dmitri Greshnev were sitting in a car on the west side of a car park, waiting for Aleksandre and Ketevan Guramishvili. Quinn had assured him that Aleksandre would be coming to meet with a Konrad Vogel, who wanted to discuss a weapon sale. They would not meet in Vogel's office, because this was going to be a deal that was to be completed "under the table". Aleksandre was supposed to be driving a green car so Vogel would know which one to approach.

A green car drove up on the east side of the park and they could see that there were two people inside. The car parked next to a white panel truck that partially obscured their view. Greshnev was getting a little concerned because they lost sight of the two occupants of the car, but then a delivery man approached the van and drove it away, giving them a clear view that there still were two people in the green car.

Quinn smiled as she and Greshnev got out of their vehicle and went to the back. Opening the trunk, Quinn brought out an RPG-26, a Russian, disposable, single shot rocket launcher.

"The man wants weapons delivered to him. Do you want the honor of giving him what he wants?" she asked the Russian.

Greshnev chuckled at the irony of the situation. "Of course, nothing would give me greater pleasure."

He raised the weapon to his shoulder, pulled the trigger, and watched as the small green car exploded in flames. The car rose almost ten feet in the air, a massive fireball that bounced and rolled away from them several times, then rested on its side as it continued to burn. Quinn took the launcher back from Greshnev, threw it into the trunk, and they got back into their vehicle. They waited until the polizei arrived at the scene, then snuck out the back side of the parking lot and drove away, a smile of satisfaction on both their faces.

**)( )( )( )( )( )(**

**High over Frankfurt, Germany**

A C-130 Hercules had just lifted off of the runway of Rhein-Main Air Base and started its wide turn to begin its journey to the United States, with refueling stops at the US air base in Lakenheath, Suffolk, England, and Thule Air Base in Greenland. Aleksandre Guramishvili took a long last look out the window at the city he would probably never visit again. He saw a smokey plume arising from the southwest quadrant of the city and wondered what could be burning that would send up such a greasy black smoke. But he would never know now, so he turned back to looking at his wife, trying to reassure her that this was going to be the best thing for her and their unborn child.

**)( )( )( )( )( )(**

**Sidorov's dacha on the Volga, a few miles north and west of Moscow, Russia**

The black Mercedes-Benz W124 pulled up near the front door and two security guards, guns drawn, went over to check the occupants. Seeing it was Dmitri Greshnev and a very attractive woman, they helped her out of the car and went to the back to get the luggage. Greshnev led her into the building and showed her to a room upstairs. The two guards brought in her luggage, but Greshnev told her that Sidorov would prefer that she wore something that he had already waiting for her in the closet. She went over to the walk in closet and pulled open the mirrored doors. Within she saw gowns from Paris, Rome, and New York. She checked and they were all her size.

She turned and asked Greshnev, "Is there any one in particular that he would like to see me in?"

"No," the man replied. He looked at his watch. "You have three hours before dinner. If you want to take a nap and need a wake up call, just pick up the phone and ask for Sergei. In fact, if there is anything you need, you can call on him and he will get it for you. Through that door is a powder room with a bath, shower, and small spa. Is there anything more that I can do for you before I leave?"

"No, I will be ready in three hours." she said.

As Greshnev was leaving, he said, "Just come down the stairs. You will be met and escorted to the dining room." He then closed the door and she heard his footsteps go off somewhere else on the second floor.

**)( )( )( )( )( )(**

Quinn spent at least an hour in the sauna setting it as hot as she could and doing isometric exercises to loosen all her muscles. Then she looked in the vanity and found a bottle of foaming bath oil. Pouring it into the tub, she filled it and then relaxed as the hot water pulled all the kinks out of her body. She finished off with a shower, and towel dried herself completely. She went to the closet and pulled out an orange silk, ankle-length caftan with long, flowing sleeves and found some low matching heels. In her suitcase she found a pair of nude panty hose that she pulled up over her long legs. Slipping the caftan over her head, and slipping on the heels, she proceeded to do her hair. Twisting it into a French braid, she secured it with two metal rods that could easily be pulled from her hair and used as weapons. Taking one last look at herself in the mirrored closet doors, she left the room to descend the staircase prior to the evening meal. Sergei Grishin, the majordomo of the Sidorov estate, met her at the bottom, and escorted her into the dining room, where the large table was just partially set, two place settings opposite each other near the head of the table. He pulled out a chair for Quinn, and pushed her closer to the table after she sat down.

Sidorov entered the room from the other door. He went over to Quinn, took her hand and kissed the back of it, and then told her, "Good evening, Quinn. I am Isaak Sidorov, your host. I hope your trip was enjoyable."

"It was, thank you very much." she answered.

"I know we have much to discuss, but let us leave that for after dinner. I do not want to spoil this meal with any unpleasant conversation."

The meal began with caviar, served very cold, in a glass bowl nested inside a larger bowl filled with ice. Sidorov invited her to take what she wanted from the bowl with the mother of pearl server and transfer it to the plate in front of her that was thoroughly chilled. Another small serving platter held small pieces of buttered toast points or blinis, and some bland, unsalted crackers, as well as a bowl of creme fraiche. Sidorov was pleased to see that she just took one small cracker and used it to help push the caviar from her plate to her own mother-of-pearl spoon.

Having tasted it, she looked at him with a curious smile on her face, "This isn't Beluga. It tastes very close to it, but there is more of a creaminess to this. I could get to like this even better than the Beluga."

"You have a very discerning palate. No, it is not Beluga. It is Volga Reserve, named for the river that flows just outside this dacha. It is harder to obtain than the Beluga, but living here helps one to know when the older sturgeon are spawning and ready to give up the better tasting roe."

Sidorov then took a bottle of champagne out of the ice bucket, twisted off the foil and wire, then finally the cork with a satisfying pop, and began to fill her champagne flute. Let me also pour you some champaign." he said. "Again, most people would be satisfied with a Dom Pérignon, but I prefer a vintage Krug Grande Cuvee, with its smoky, intense layer upon layer of coffee, roasted nut, golden pie crust, ripe apple, honey and spice flavors, perfectly balanced for taste and compatibility."

After sipping the champagne, Quinn just smiled her agreement with his choice.

The whole meal went that way, with decidedly Russian foods done in an extraordinary way. She was first served a field green salad, with beets, arugula, blue cheese and candied pecans. Their entree was Veal Orlov, a braised loin of veal, thinly sliced, filled with a thin layer of pureed mushrooms and onions between each slice, topped with bechamel sauce and cheese, with rye Kvass to drink, a fermented non-alcoholic beverage made from caraway rye bread. For desert they had Zapekanka, baked cottage cheese, with sour cream, vanilla, and raisins, the Russian answer to cheese cake, accompanied, of course, by the silver samovar filled with hot water for their tea. Here too, it was not just ordinary tea, but rather the distinctive smoky flavor of the traditional blend known as Russian Caravan.

**)( )( )( )( )( )(**

When the meal was over, they retired to the drawing room. There Quinn saw two couches facing each other, and a pair of overstuffed chairs set to form the base of the letter U. Sidorov dimmed the light coming from the chandelier to a comfortable setting. Quinn walked along the walls of the room, looking at the paintings displayed there, each with its own light, showing off its individual beauty. "These are lovely," she said to him.

"Not half as lovely as you are, my dear."

"I'm not in business to look good." she retorted.

"But I'm sure it helps, even in your business," he said.

"Speaking of business..." she went on.

"The money has all ready been deposited into your account."

"Thank you for being so prompt."

"There is another matter that I wish to discuss with you." he said eagerly.

"Another target?" she asked.

"No, I wish that you would become a permanent member of my organization."

"I'm sorry. That will never happen. I am an independent contractor. The operative word is independent."

"You realize that I have ways to force you to do my bidding."

"Yes, but you also realize that I can wait my time and deal with you, however I want, at any time in the future. Even now I have ways that I could kill you before your guards would even realize you are in danger."

"Quinn, Quinn. What sort of woman are you? What led you to this type of life?"

"I was born into it. I was raised with it. I learned how to live with it and use it for my own purposes."

"I don't understand, tell me about your life."

"I was born in Angola while the civil war was going on there. Most of the men from my village were taken to be soldiers or just killed if they were thought to be on the wrong side. The females were not as lucky. I was ten years old when I was raped for the first time. Over the next two years there were five times that one of the soldiers took me out of the village for the night, to spend some 'recreational' time with me. Four of those men lost their lives for the pleasure they received, the fifth one lost his manhood, so he may be dead too, since he probably bled out. I wasn't even a teenager yet, when I fled the country into Rhodesia. That's where I learned to be an invisible black girl in a nation of white people."

"But there was a war going on there, too. Didn't you just change one group of soldiers who molested you for another?"

"No. In Rhodesia it was black versus white. I was too young and plain for the white soldiers to consider me as a sexual partner, besides the fact that they wouldn't get caught outside their compounds after dark. That would have been a death sentence for them."

"I was brought into the Zimbabwe African People's Union (ZAPU) in Southern Rhodesia. I started as a courier, bringing messages to members of the African National Congress (ANC) and the South-West Africa People's Organization (SWAPO), especially when the Rhodesia government, aided by South Africa, would launch raids on them. After all, who would stop a little black girl, that was going to another village or the city to get her grandmother to come home and help her mother give birth to another child?"

"A couple of times the camp I was in came under attack, and one of the camp commanders figured that since I was there so often, I might as well learn how to use the weapons available to help defend it. He saw to it that I was trained in throwing knives, using pistols and rifles, even semiautomatic weapons. Everyone was surprised at how naturally I took to it. Soon I was even better than a lot of the soldiers. That got me a raise in status in ZAPU too. I became a sniper, taking out the sentries at the compounds before the main attacks."

"After a couple of years I began to understand that there was no future for me in ZAPU. I faked my death and made my way to Somalia In Mogadishu I tailed a man for a few days, and then one night I assassinated him. I took all his money and found where I could get some false papers made. With them I got a fake passport and a plane ticket to Syria. The word spread that I could fill a contract, killing whoever you wanted. As my kill score rose, so did my prices. Now I am known well enough to demand top dollar for my services."

"You have led a hard life. Perhaps you need someone to help you enjoy the finer things that you have missed so far in life."

"And I suppose that you are the person that I need to show me what these finer things in life are?" Quinn said, as she rose off the couch and took a step backwards.

"I can offer you anything and everything you could desire," he said as he also rose and came closer to her.

"I can offer you stimulating conversation." His words were soft and inviting, as he took his right hand and slowly caressed the back of her right ear.

"I can offer you fine food and drink, that will put the meal we just had to shame." The other four fingers of his right hand curled up, as his still extended index finger slowly slid across her face, and traced the shape of her two lips.

"I can offer you protection from all your enemies." His fingers again extended, he loosely covered her throat, using them to shield the delicate air and blood supply to her brain.

"I can offer you someone with whom you can share the rest of your life." His fingers traced along her collarbone and went to the three snaps on the left shoulder of her caftan. Deftly opening them, he moved the upper right shoulder away from her neck and stepped back as the garment slid down her body and pooled at her feet.

Sidorov took two full steps back so he could take in the full picture of the woman standing before him. "Lovely, so lovely," he said to himself, his words barely audible. He looked at her face as he said in a voice that he was sure she could hear, "Dear Quinn, I thought of you as a Black Widow. But I was wrong, so very wrong. You are a black leopard, lithe, sleek, and deadly."

He started to come back toward her, but she held up her right hand to hold him off. "You can look, but you can't touch. I told you that I am independent. That applies to my contracts and that also applies to my life and my body. I do believe our business is done." With those words, she turned and walked away from him, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor as she left the room. Ascending the stairs, she went back to her room, picked up the phone and asked for Sergei to drive her back into the city. She changed back into clothes suitable for traveling, repacked her bags, and sat down on the bed waiting for Sergei or Greshnev to arrive.

**)( )( )( )( )( )(**

**The St. Regis Moscow Nikolskaya Hotel, Moscow, Russia**

Greshnev dropped her off at the entrance of the St. Regis on Nikolskaya Street near the Kremlin in downtown Moscow. Walking through the lobby, she made arrangements for a deluxe room, since all the suites were already taken, and gave strict orders that any phone call from Isaak Sidorov should not be put through to her. As she entered her room, she was again reminded of just why she made this her hotel of choice when she had to stay in Moscow. The rich dark wood and warm beige colors throughout the rooms were not only pleasant to her eyes, but they also complemented her skin tones so well. She went over to the small work desk and dialed the Aeroflot ticket office at Domodedovo Airport, and arranged passage on a flight the following evening back to Frankfurt. Then she went to her bags, found her comfortable long, chocolate-brown nightgown, changed and crawled into bed, not even leaving a wake up call.

The following morning Quinn woke up just a few minutes after 9:00. She took a leisurely shower and dressed in a smartly styled camel colored pants suit to go out shopping. She made her way to the Ritz-Carlton, ostensively to continue the past evening's Russian cuisine in the Café Russe. What she was more importantly looking for was a phone in the lobby that could not be connected to her. After her meal, she entered the booth and made a collect call to one of Isaac Phelps' phone drops.

"Herr Vogel, this is Ana Toreli. I'd like to return an item, number 2120. It was what I needed, but the time to use it has past. I am dropping it off today for return." In this short message she told her CIA handler when she was arriving in Frankfurt and that she would contact him for her debriefing.

After making sure that she had everything packed the way she wanted it, Quinn decided to take a nap before her evening flight. She was pulled from the depths of slumber by someone knocking on her door. Putting on a robe, she went over to the door and looked through the peephole. Dmitri Greshnev was standing there, holding a huge box in his hands. A brief flash of anger came across her face as she wondered why he should show up at her door. She finally decided to tell him flat out that her business with Sidorov was over.

Opening the door, she asked, "Greshnev, our business is concluded. You have no reason to be here."

"Mr. Sidorov wanted me to give this to you." he said as he handed the box to her.

"Why would he want to give me anything? He paid me for the work I did. I refused to become a member of his organization. He has no reason to give me anything."

"He told me you would say that. He also told me to tell you that it is just a gift, pure and simple, because he wants the world to have the pleasure of seeing a beautiful lady in a beautiful garment."

Quinn invited him in and he placed the box on the couch before he backed away. She took the top off the box and pulled out a full length, hooded sable coat.

"This is beautiful, but I cannot accept this. It is far too costly a gift to be given freely. What does he really want from me? He cannot use this to buy my services. Please return it to him."

"That I cannot do. He told me to deliver it to you. It is now yours. What you do with it is no concern to me." With those words he turned and left.

Quinn immediately went to the phone and called Sidorov. The moment that he came on the line she started yelling at him. "Isaak, what the hell are you doing? Didn't you understand that I would not be a part of your corporation? Why are you trying to bribe me? Did you think that something like this would make me change my mind? I told you that I was an independent woman. Something like this will not change that." She had to stop and catch her breath.

Sidorov just replied with a soft voice, "I'm sorry if you see it that way, Quinn. That is not how it was intended. It is a gift, pure and simple. I understand that if you are ever employed by me again, it will be by your free choice. By no means is it intended to be a bribe or an incentive for you to work for me again. It is just something that I want you to have."

"It is far too expensive, Isaac."

"Have you tried it on, Quinn?"

"Not yet," she said as she pulled it out again and slipped her arms into the sleeves. She pulled up the hood and then wrapped her arms around herself and hummed with delight over how luxurious it felt.

"And I suppose that when I accept your next contract, you will expect me to be wearing this?"

"Only if it is winter. You know that Moscow can become very cold, and a beautiful woman needs something like this to keep her warm."

Quinn laughed at that. She saw that she would get nowhere with her arguments, so she left her former employer with a warning. "I will accept it under one condition. If you ever try to use it to influence me into taking on a contract, I will use it as payment on another contract, with you as the target. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly," was the answer Sidorov gave her before she hung up.

**)( )( )( )( )( )(**

**Frankfurt, Germany**

The following day, as Quinn entered the same lawyer's office where this CIA operation started, she saw that CIA substation chief Isaac Phelps was already waiting for her. For the next half hour she detailed everything that happened while she was in Russia. Phelps called in both Bruce Hughes and Jerry Schroeder, from the Russian section of the CIA. He made Quinn go through her report all over again for the two agents that they could know how the Sidorov situation was developing.

Schroeder became agitated the minute he heard the name Sidorov mentioned. The further Quinn got in her report the more angry he became. When he heard that Quinn refused to become a full time employee of Sidorov, he exploded. "WHAT? You know we are trying to get someone into the Sidorov organization. We could have used you in that position. And you turned him down? What were you thinking?" He turned toward Phelps and lashed out at him, "You see, this is what happens when people who don't understand the issues and problems are allowed to butt into areas that they and not qualified to dabble in."

Phelps let him rant and rave. When he was done, he turned toward Quinn and asked, "Agent Quinn, can you explain your logic in refusing permanent employ by Isaak Sidorov?"

"Certainly, sir." she responded. "If I would have accepted his offer, all I would have been is a permanent member of his organization. I would just have been given orders, and be expected to obey them implicitly. Sidorov would literally own me and control my every movement."

"If I wanted to maintain my cover, I would have had to be able to leave and do more of my 'work'. So now, I am working instead on getting myself into his heart. If I do, it will be a great deal more beneficial to everyone, than my just being a member of his staff. I can be in on the planning instead of just learning the results of that planning. Sidorov knows that I will come back to him, but only in my own time and under my own conditions."

Schroeder looked at her in amazement. "You are working on getting into his heart? You are playing a very dangerous game, Agent Quinn. How can you be sure that you are succeeding in your efforts?"

"I know what I am doing. First of all, Agent Schroeder, this is not a game. It is life and death reality, and I'm staking my life on the outcome. And I know that my efforts are succeeding. I am in. The proof that I have that I'm succeeding? Nothing much, outside of the fact that Sidorov has already given me a gift, a hooded, full length sable coat that is worth more than a quarter of a million dollars US."

"Isn't he going to use that against you, trying to get you to take on jobs that you normally would not do?"

"I told him that if he tries something like that, the coat will become payment for another contract, with him as the target."

"You know that it just might come down to that." Schroeder told her, as he rose to leave.

"I know," Quinn declared, with grim determination in her voice.


End file.
